Operation This is 40

Typecasting is the process by which a particular actor becomes strongly identified with a specific character he or she has played. I think most of the actors on the hit show Friends have been forever “typecast” as Ross, Rachel, Chandler, Joey, Monica and Phoebe. It’s not a good thing to be typecast. In fact usually you struggle to find steady work later on.

Well, I worry that I too have been typecast . . . as the goofy guy that everyone likes to laugh at, but no one takes seriously. And like Matt LeBlanc, a.k.a. Joey Tribbiani, I am finding it hard to change that typecast.

For as long as I can remember, I wanted to be the funny guy. The class clown. The guy with the great one-liners, and funny comments. In high school, I didn’t win any state swimming trophies, and I certainly wasn’t considered for the Dean’s List, but when I was named funniest guy in my English class my senior year I accepted the “award,” which I believe was a king-sized Twix bar, like it WAS the swimming state title. All my hard work and practice had paid off. I was funny, and everyone knew it.

I carried that persona into college, and spent four . . . okay five . . . fine almost six . . . years cracking up my roommates, and a few professors along the way.

Finally graduated and kept right on going. I was the guy who wore a Snoopy tie to a job interview. I was the guy who got a job as a reporter covering the Notre Dame football team, and once stole Lou Holtz’s golf cart because another reporter told me it would be funny . . . actually Coach Holtz didn’t find it funny at all . . . but me and the other reporter did. I was the guy who everyone wanted to sit with at lunch because I cracked them up. I was the guy who always got high marks on yearly evaluations for “office chemistry,” and “for having an upbeat attitude.” And when one of my clients was asked to review me his first comment was “Well everyone likes Clay, he’s hilarious.”

And yet . . . I fear that I may be somewhat one-dimensional. Now this isn’t going to be a blog about “where I’d be if only I hadn’t been so damn funny.” No. Not at all. Frankly, I truly believe I’ve simply been at the wrong place at the wrong time on TWO different occasions, and neither my humor or my hard work was going to save me from getting let go. And I don’t think I’d have my group of friends . . . which is a GREAT group of friends . . . if I had a more serious, less humorous personality. Quite honestly I don’t think I would have gotten my wife to go out in the first place had I not been funny. I think she’d admit that my sense of humor was one of the things that she liked about me.

BUT . . . I’m at paddle match a few weeks ago, and my partner and I win. Later inside the paddle hut I over-hear these two guys talking to a few of their teammates and I hear someone say “I can’t believe you just lost to that goof ball.” Now I know what you’re thinking, maybe that guy was talking about my partner. Nope. My partner that night was a 55-year old guy who plays in a full, down-jacket, and ski cap pulled down to just above his eyes . . . I actually don’t know how he sees the ball. He never smiles or says a word. We have nicknamed him the Unabomber. He frightens me. So trust me, he wasn’t talking about my partner.

And while I didn’t lose a lot of sleep over it . . . frankly it’s not at all the worst thing that’s been said to me during or after a paddle match . . . it did get me thinking . . . if I’m not taken seriously amongst my fellow paddle players, then where could I possibly be taken seriously? Because remember this silly game of paddle is mostly played by a bunch of goofy guys who are giddy just to get away from the wife and kids for a few hours on a Tuesday or Wednesday night. Sure there are some seriously good players, and sure some of them have very “big” jobs, but a lot of beer is consumed and a lot of pizza is eaten during “paddle nights” and I would venture to guess that the main topic of conversation after matches is about past or upcoming trips to Vegas, college basketball, and who’s gotten laid recently. So basically if this group of guys isn’t taking me seriously then I’m in REAL TROUBLE. My reputation has officially preceded me.

Time for a change. “Operation this is 40” has begun. Of course, three years late because it took me awhile to get going.

First thing I do, buy a comfortable pair of khaki pants – must dress in something other than sweats. I assume this is what all 40-year old guys looking to be taken seriously do. I get rid of the loose fit Gap khakis I have had for years and get a nicer looking, more grownup (thought not slimfit) pair of khaki-colored pants from Banana Republic. Problem is they are simply not as comfortable as a pair of sweat pants. Now every time I need to run errands or pick up my kids or head over to the gas station, I am running to my closet to put on khakis. And as soon as I am home again, I am changing back into sweats. Literally I am changing clothes more than a 15-year old girl before Homecoming.

To make matters worse, I sometimes forget to change my top. I have recently been seen around town in khaki pants and a NEON YELLOW Adidas hoodie. And I went to the grocery store last week in khakis and an Adam Graves New York Rangers jersey. Someone in the store actually stopped me and said “Cool Retro Jersey.” Boy, not at all what I was going for. I’m not dressing better. I’m dressing like a clown!

Next I decided to engage in more serious conversations when out with friends. Typically when I get together with friends I tend to talk about sports, and sex, and paddle, and not much else.
So I met up with a friend for breakfast. My goal was to talk about politics or his job or his concerns with our local school district. Something that didn’t involve batting averages, field goal percentages or favorite sex positions. Not more than 15 minutes into it and I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I don’t even know what we were talking about but I wanted to say to him “if you stop talking right now I’ll buy your breakfast.” In fact I may have actually said those exact words OUT LOUD because shortly thereafter he had to go.

I also decided to tone the humor down in some of my emails. As you can probably imagine most of the emails I exchange with people are less than serious. I am ALWAYS trying to inject a little humor into an email. So last week I sent an email out to my paddle team about Sunday practice. But this time there were no silly quotes, or over-the-top analogies, or funny stories. Just a when and where practice was going to be. Sunday morning rolled around and two guys didn’t even show up. When I got home I contacted both of the guys, and asked them why they didn’t show. Their response . . . didn’t even read the email. Basically they glanced over it, didn’t laugh, and deleted it. Even when I try to be serious it doesn’t work out.

Maybe “Operation this is 40” is pointless and silly. Maybe being the funny guy is alright. Maybe being known as the guy who plunges his floor drain when it leaks or throws footballs at a bee hive when he’s trying to knock it off his roof isn’t such a bad thing.

Okay, so yeah I’m sitting in sweatpants and a hoodie right now as I write this blog. And sure, maybe I’m currently going back and forth between writing this blog and building my Clash of Clans village, which I brag about to my fellow clan members (and I am well aware that that didn’t necessarily sound good) most of whom are 12-year-old boys (and yes, I am ALSO aware that that TOO didn’t necessarily sound good), but so what?

Fine, I just turned 43, and I will admit that there’s a little voice in my ear whispering “grow up, it’s time, you’re not 20 anymore, start acting your age, and for the love of God stop using the word ‘dude’.” But maybe I’ll just ignore it. Then again this is the same little voice that has said “stop taking Viagra, your wife doesn’t want to have sex with you twice in one night . . . hell, she barely wants to have sex with you at all . . . you’re an idiot . . . put the little blue pill down,” so maybe ignoring it completely isn’t smart.

So Matt LeBlanc will always be known as Joey, and maybe I’ll always be known as the class clown.
But my wife chose the funny guy, and my friends chose the funny guy, so maybe I’ll just try to be the funny guy who dresses a little better. My wife says next stop is Neiman’s.

Balding Sucks!

Call me practical. Or better yet call me a realist. Or simply call me someone who admits defeat. For with each year I get older I become more willing to accept the changes that my body is going through.

Am I necessarily happy about these ongoing changes, hell no, but I have accepted or adopted an “it is what it is” type of attitude when it comes to my aging body.

I am constantly reminding my boys that they should “enjoy their bodies” because “they aren’t going to get better as they get older.” Of course they don’t listen to my advice, but I get it, I’m sure I didn’t listen to my dad when he was telling me this exact same stuff when I was a teenager.

But it’s the sad truth, bodies don’t get better. And while I continue to fight this on some level, I have also started to accept certain undeniable truths.

For instance I have hair growing on my back. I’m not happy about this. In fact I’m rather repulsed by this . . . though probably not as much as my wife is . . . and I do try to fight it by occasionally having it professionally waxed off . . . and I imagine that having your back waxed is simply one level above being kicked in the balls . . . but I am beginning to accept the fact that I simply have hair on my back. I didn’t 15 years ago, but I do today. It is what it is.

My mid section is a whole lot bigger than it used to be, and frankly it’s a whole lot harder to shrink it. Yeah 15 to 20 years ago I could eat whatever I wanted to, and still not gain a lot of weight. Nowadays I eat a pizza and I’m three pounds heavier the next morning. And to make matters worse, in order to lose those three pounds I need to run five miles and bang out 100 sit ups. Like so many people my age I am trying to watch what I eat, and I am trying to get more exercise, and yet I am also beginning to accept the fact that I’m simply not going to have the body I had when I was in my early to mid 20’s. It is what it is.

And I’m even willing to acknowledge and maybe even accept . . . maybe . . . that Little Clay just doesn’t work the way he used to. 20 years ago I was a porn star. If I had to describe my sexual prowess with a song title it would have been The Kinks’ All Day and All of the Night, or U2’s Elevation. Today, I’d go with the Rolling Stones’ You Can’t Always Get What You Want, or Tom Petty’s Free Falling. Yes I’ve tried the little blue pill, and it works . . . especially when you take it on an empty stomach and chase it with a couple Excedrin’s and two Nyquil’s . . . another story for another time . . . but for the most part I’m prepared to accept that this too just doesn’t work the way it once did. It is what it is.

However, I am having trouble accepting IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM that I am beginning to bald. I am NOT willing to simply say “it is what it is” when it comes to balding. I can deal with the hair on my back. And I can deal with the larger mid section, and if absolutely necessary I can even deal with the dysfunctions “down there,” but I am NOT ready to deal with OR ACCEPT going bald.

In my opinion balding hits the triple-crown . . . it makes me look old, it makes me look ugly and it makes me look like I’m dying. Balding does not have the charm of sun-beaten wrinkles nor the wisdom and class of gray hair. It doesn’t even have the acceptability of flab. No, balding is like watching a body decompose. If you want to scare someone in a movie you create a villain with hair so thin you can see patches of scalp through it. Do you think Freddie Krueger would have worn that hat if he’d had a luxurious mane underneath it?

Sure some guys can pull it off. Hell some guys can look downright “bad-ass.” Think Kojak and Bruce Willis and Michael Jordan or every UFC fighter. But I am not a bad-ass. I’m more balding accountant or monk.

Worse yet, I’m only balding in one place . . . on the top of my head. Which means I’m not going to be fully bald any time soon, but rather partially bald with hair on the sides and back of my head. That actually could be worse than being fully bald.

I think balding is as close as I will ever come to understanding what it’s like to be a woman and constantly worrying about how I look or how I’m perceived.

Balding is my big butt. My wrong make-up. My butchered bangs. My top that doesn’t match my skirt. My other things that women are always complaining about that I’m not really listening to. But now I too see pictures of myself and I cringe. I look in the mirror now and see my good looks slipping away . . . and my looks weren’t that good to start with . . . so imagine my horror!

The other day I went on line to look up sites for balding. Just to see what’s out there. Hey call it “misery loves company.” As you can probably imagine there are 1,001 sites on how to stop it, cure it, fix it, over-come it, and so on and so on. But I also found one site called “Bald Men Are So Ugly!” This site contains comments like “I would rather have sex with a 500-pound dude or a guy with a tiny wiener.” Or “They do in fact look like pig fetuses.” Of course I don’t think the retorts from some of the bald guys helped. The most creative one I could find . . . and I had to look hard for this one . . . was “You should admire my other bald head.” If that’s the best come-back I can someday hope for . . . I’m in trouble.

Furthermore, despite what some of these websites claim, there appear to be no good solutions to balding. From what I can tell Propecia is about as good as it gets, and yet one of the main side effects is sexual dysfunction . . . which is just as bad as going bald!!!!

You know I sit around and talk about “the good old days” a lot. Probably more than I should since I think sitting around reminiscing about the “good old days” makes you sound a lot older than you really are. But certainly when it comes to my body, and my physical appearance I do find myself thinking back to the “good old days,” and I just wish there was a way to know you’re in the “good old days” before you’ve actually left them.

Because I would have enjoyed having hair on my head instead of my back A LOT MORE had I realized that it was all going to come to an end.

Conventional Wisdom . . . And The Big FOUR-OH

I am 14,610 days old today.  The big FOUR-OH.  I’m 40.  The day that I have been dreading for some time is finally here.  It’s not right around the corner.  It’s upon me.  It’s here right now.  Today is my 40^th birthday.  And how do I feel?  Well, frankly no different than I felt yesterday.  And not much different than I felt when I turned 39.  Or even 38 for that matter.  It’s really just another day.  It’s a Thursday.  And yet I already miss being “30-something.”  I can’t believe I’m 40.

Now I know most of my blog readers have already celebrated their 40^th birthdays, so I’m sure most of them are wondering why I’m making such a big deal about it.

Well, let me give you a quick back story here . . . . Years ago my sister and I played house together using Star Wars figures . . . hey, Star Wars was HUGE back then (this is late 70’s) . . . and my sister was my only sibling, so if I wanted someone to play Star Wars figures with me, it was her or bust.  Anyway, Darth Vader and Princess Leia were the mom and dad.  Luke Skywalker and Han Solo were older kids, and the Jawas and the Ewoks were the little kids . . . and yes, the annual family Christmas Card was a freaking house of horrors. . . I get it.  But guess how old Darth Vader and Princess Leia were . . . you guessed it. . . they were 40.  And why 40?  Because that’s the age my sister and I thought was “old.” 

I’m now that age.  I’m now the same age we bestowed on Darth Vader and Princess Leia 30+ years ago.

Furthermore, like so many people, I had set personal goals for myself, and as of today I have failed to reach pretty much all of those goals.  Okay, my marriage and my kids have been spectacular.  A smashing success.  However, my professional or career goals have been a dismal failure.  Just awful.  My goals to get back in shape . . . well, they’re a step above my career goals in regards to success rate.  And my financial goals, well I had to borrow $40 from my eight year old last week to pay for pizza . . . which is to say that I stole $40 out of his piggy bank, which officially makes me a 40-year-old deadbeat.

So you see where I’m going here, right?  You see why I’m so depressed over turning 40?  I needed more time to be 30-something so that I could accomplish more by the time 40 came around.   

You know, conventional wisdom suggests that “All Good Things Must Come To An End.”

We all know this is true.  And yet there are a few things in life that we hope will defy conventional wisdom and last forever . . . . like my 30’s.

For instance, we know that boobs eventually sag, and yet we hold out hope that they will remain perky and firm even as they begin to head South.

We know that honeymoon or newlywed sex will slow down to AT BEST once a week sex, and yet we remain hopeful that “the good times” will continue forever even after the “headache excuses” start.

We know a great run at the Vegas Blackjack table will end at some point, and yet we continue to place bets in hopes that our good fortunes will continue even after we’ve made repeated trips to the cash station machine.

We know the hair on top of our heads will begin to migrate to our backs at some point, and yet we hope that this fate will somehow skip over us even after we’ve started doing the “comb-over” and having our backs professionally waxed.

We know our kids will eventually get a driver’s license, spend less time with us (or want nothing to do with us) and leave home, but we secretly hope that they’ll just stay young and keep riding their bikes around the neighborhood, begging for ice cream from the godforsaken truck and continue thinking that we are the greatest parents ever.

We know vacations have to come to an end, and yet we hope that they’ll last forever even after we’ve packed up and boarded the plane home.

We know a great date night has to come to an end, and yet we hold out hope that the night will go on forever even after we’ve returned home.

And we know we’re all getting older, and yet we hold out hope for some type of fountain of youth even after we’ve celebrated our 40^th birthdays.

You know, it seems to me that maybe conventional wisdom suggests that we’re all just in denial of reality.  I know I am.

No Mas

As I have stated here in this blog repeatedly, I am fighting the “age thing” with everything I’ve got.  From refusing to acknowledge my upcoming 40^th, to refusing to take off my baggy Abercrombie & Fitch camouflage shorts, to refusing to get an adult-like haircut (the last one was so bad that my wife actually had to cut it again when she got home just to even it out), I am hell-bent against acknowledging the fact that I am in fact getting older.

Until now, that is.  I have found my match.  I have reached my breaking point where even I must admit enough is enough, and that age has caught up to me.  No mas.     

I can’t say for sure when exactly I knew that I was done, but I believe it was somewhere outside of Delafield, Wisconsin.  I slowly chugged up yet another big hill frantically looking for an even lower gear to use and started wondering whether the feeling in my testicles would ever return when it officially hit me . . . I’m simply too old for this shit. 

I was just 30 miles away from finishing my 10^th straight Cowalunga 3-day bike-tour in support of the American Lung Association, and I knew that there would not be an 11^th year. 

Now it’s not like I’ve lost interest in bike riding, I haven’t.  And it’s not like biking is a “young man’s sport,” it’s not.  It’s just that biking certainly isn’t getting any easier as I get older, and because of family responsibilities and kid activities, training for a 200-mile, 3-day ride is more difficult than ever.  I simply don’t have sufficient time to train for such a ride, and waking up at 6 a.m. on Sundays to train simply won’t cut it.  Ten years ago it wouldn’t have mattered, I could pretty much jump on the bike without any training and ride 200 miles without thinking about it.  I do that now and I have trouble standing upright the next day. 

But it’s not just the actual ride itself, it’s all the “other stuff” that you deal with during the three days that eight or nine or ten years ago seemed sorta fun, but now just seems to be an irritant.

For instance the accommodations are less than spectacular.  Cabins in a camp ground on Day #1 and a dorm room at the University of Whitewater on Day #2.  Now 10 years ago the dorms were sort of fun.  A chance to rekindle those college days while goofing around with the nice people sleeping in the room next to you.  Fast forward 10 years later and the dorms are a hot, cramped reminder that you’re a long way from home, and the “nice people” sleeping in the room next to you are now those jerks who keep slamming their door every time they come and go.

The heat and humidity and head winds that you rode through 10 years ago made you feel like a professional cyclist competing in some Tour de France-like road race.  Now that same heat and humidity and head winds make you feel ill and woefully out of shape.  The smile I used to wear as I grinded out mile after mile has been replaced by curse words that I utter at anyone foolish enough to ride by and say “hey, looking good.” 

And the Clif Bars and Gatorade and bags of pretzels that they have at the various rest stops are no longer considered a tasty treat, but a reminder that Clif Bars are not tasty, but actually a disgusting granola bar wanna-be that looks like a piece of shit.  Seriously, go buy a Clif Bar and tell me what you think it looks like.  Buy the Chocolate Chip Cookie one.  Go ahead.

Despite all of that, deciding not to go is still a hard decision for me to make.  This silly ride has become a part of my summer, and the time I get to spend with my two pals who have ridden with me for all 10 rides is a lot of fun.  But in the last 10 years I’ve ridden close to 2,000 miles.  I’ve had about a half dozen flat tires.  About a half dozen bee stings.  I’ve fallen off my bike twice and even dealt with a bad case of food poisoning. 

I know this will come as a disappointment to my high school pals who look forward to the trip, but we need to come up with a different activity.  I’ve had enough.  Besides, I think it’s time I get the feeling back in my balls.  Hoping that happens soon…